


Which one of you bitches wants to dance?

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caring, Drunk Sam Winchester, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hair Washing, Sam Winchester Being an Idiot, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-05-20 23:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14904489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: Sam goes fishing and just ends up wet..Sam misses you looking after him when he's injured, so rustles up an occasion.





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey.”  Sam’s so good at this, so clandestine.  You won’t suspect a thing.  “Hey, dude.  Hey.”

Dude swings a glare towards this great big shaggy trucker guy who keeps stage-whispering at him.

Sam’s tilting off his stool like a jenga tower on its last jeng. He keeps his hold on the bar and leans over a little more.

“Hey,” Sam smiles, eye contact locked.  “You guys wanna start a fight?”

“What?” A Friend of Dude leans towards Sam, beer in hand, so he can hear as Dude replies.  “You wanna  _fight?_ ”

“Yeah.”  Sam lets go and stomps into the step that catches him, arm swinging with it.  “Yeah, are you in’erested?  We can-” He picks up his fists and does a loose duck-duck-punch.  “-just a quick round.  Quick fight.” Sam’s chest heaves with the simple effort of being awake.  His breath is flammable.

Both guys run their eyes down and up, accumulating another friend who stands back to listen.  They look at their bystander and he shrugs, drinks his beer.  “I wasn’t planning on it, but,” more shrugging.

“Why the fuck do you wanna fight?” asks Dude.

“I don’t wanna  _fight?!_ ” Sam scowls, because fighting is a ridiculous idea!  “I just, a few, just a little fight would be, ‘at’d be handy right now.”

“What the fuck for?”  They’re practically triplets with their eyebrows all peaked, hunched over to talk.

Sam swallows, bobbing his head with a long blink, his fists still half ready.  When he tries to answer, his eyebrows go up but they’re not strong enough to open his eyes.  His long pre-word pout looks like he might be have developed a stutter, but instead he puts his lips away and holds up his finger to correct himself.  “Secret,” he slurs.  “Shhcan’t tell.”

*smack!*

Sam takes a fist to the cheek and swings away like a saloon door.  Two guys look at their friend and he shrugs yet again, grinning.  “He asked so nicely.”

“Dude, it’s just not fair.  He’s tanked.  He-” But Sam interrupts him, swinging a punch that’s muscle-memory-accurate, just light enough for him to tilt backwards, then upright, nice and neat.

“What the fuck?”  The guy swings at Sam, and Sam, much to his own surprise, ducks out of reach.

“Shit, sorry,” he says, realising what he did.  “Go ‘gain!”

So he does, the force of it knocking Sam a step sideways.  

Sam grunts, coming back with an appreciative “Nice,” then hits the guy so hard he tips over and stumbles into people nearby.  And then it is on.

“Right, Asshole-” *smack!*

“ _Ohh!_  Not too hard.  Just-” *smack!*  _“Oh-”_

“What the hell, Pauly?”

“No! Too hard!” Sam’s sad now, because it hurts and it’s not going to plan.  “Just, jus’ clip it.”

*smack!* Sam gets his wish, and his eyebrow is split.  “Yeah! Like tha-!” *smack!*

Sam hits the other guy back, trying to even it out, and folds over with it, his sprawling frame taking up space like a broken umbrella. He rights himself enough to get the one who first hit him, and does a good job of it too.  “Because that was unfair.  I wasn’t awake,” he tells him.

Then Sam is tackled to the ground for a fight so lazy it’s absurd, Sam mumbling instructions between the knuckles.

 _“What the ever loving fuck in hell is this?!”_  All eyes turn back to you, and your loud, incredulous voice.  “What the fuck are you doing?”

“He started it!” one of them says.

You plant yourself at Sam’s head, glowering at them until they back off enough that you can walk over his drink-logged body and stand between his feet.  “He’s drunk beyond reason.  What the fuck?”

“I swear to God, he wanted us to hit him.”  

They all look the same to you.  “That doesn’t mean you  _do_ ,” you growl.  “I should smack you stupid just to teach you the lesson.”

“You’re gonna teach us a lesson?” the third giggles.  “I’d love that!”

A short fist to the face, the gut, a snatch of the wrist and you’ve got the guy bent into your arms like a chicken for the pluckin’.

“Woooshit, Steve, you are on your own,” one says.  Even bystanders have their hands up.

“You lot are gonna hafta move this elsewhere,” barks the bartender, “or I’ll get the cops to move it for ya.”

You let the guy go and glare at them until they properly back off and disengage.  Everyone shifts away from the scene, except for Blake, who takes a few tentative steps forward, watching you crouch over Sam and check his eyebrow.

“Is he okay?” he asks.  “He’s gonna live right?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.” You’re squatting by Sam’s head, watching his fists move around for the virtual reality playing behind his eyelids.  “I have to get him back to the room,” you tell Blake.

“What? No!  Leave him here! He deserves it.”  He’s miffed his potential one-night-stand with you has been interrupted.

“I can’t.  Sorry.”  You get Sam to his feet, and Blake deflates at how you don’t really seem that sorry.  “Do you wanna help? Or…”

Blake heaves a great sigh of frustration, but gets himself under Sam’s other arm nevertheless.  They’re silent as you lead them out to your car, waiting as Sam’s feet take turns to slop onto the ground.  You unlock the door and guide him onto the back seat.

“Thank you,” you tell Blake.  “And sorry about this.  I think he’s gonna need stitches, so.”

 _It’s only 9:30pm_ , thinks Blake.   _Evening’s still young_.  “Yeah, probably best you uh-.  Yeah, so maybe I’ll see y’round.”

“Yeah, maybe.  Thank you.”  You fold Sam’s legs into the car, shove the door shut, and wave at Blake as he trots back the bar with more hope than he brought.

It’s barely a 5 minute drive back to the motel.  Dean’s not come back here with his date, which is ideal since you can skip the  _No up-chuckers! That’s the last time you get the keys!_  lecture.  Although you wouldn’t mind a hand getting Sam inside.

Much to your surprise though, Sam isn’t that useless, and stands tall, moving his weight from foot to foot as he leans on your side.  He walks with his eyes closed, generally looking as though all this strings were cut but for the one holding up his head, but you get there.

“Just- stand up for a bit,” you mutter, trying to get the key out of your pocket.

“Hm,” Sam says.  Without you pulling him upright, keeping him in place, his hip swings out behind him, and then behind you, and he steps around the back of you so that his arm slides all the way over your shoulder, his cheekbone landing high on your back.

“Jesus, Sam.”  You take his other arm and pull them both, one over each shoulder, to lead him inside.  “Okay, here you go.”  Beside the bed, you jump small with a tilt, letting Sam fall and bounce onto the mattress.

“Hrrr.”

First Aid is in a bag in the bathroom and Sam’s belly-deep breathing keeps time behind you.  When you come back to the bed, it’s easiest to set up on the other side and look at him upside down.

“Hold still.  I’m gonna clean up your face.”

“Hmmm,” he exhales.  You sit above his head and start to wipe away the blood.

He looks downright serene from here, the alcohol probably doing a great job of numbing the pain.  Now it’s clean, you can see the cut probably doesn’t need stitches, and any scar will match the edge point of his eyebrow.  Hardly a blemish, really.

Gently you turn his head towards the light so you can see everything, and when your fingers curve under his jaw, helping to him keep still, his floppy hand folds up, fingers landing on your forearm.  Dumbly he squeezes his hold, kind of like a thank-you pat, then drags his fingers down over yours to press them against himself.

You guess he’s feeling affectionate, so go with it.  You’re so good at measuring your eye contact with Sam, keeping all your interactions light with friendliness, and so professional otherwise, you give yourself these little moments he steals.  You figure he’s touch starved anyway.  You certainly are.

You need both hands though, and you have to take his hand by the wrist and put it on his chest, just to get it back.  Then it’s as though he’s woken up inside and he starts talking with his eyes closed.  “Hoo nooo,” he sighs.  “I’m too drunk.”

“Are you?”  You keep putting antiseptic on the wounds.

“Hmmm. I can’t see you.”

“Well, you’re eyes are closed.”

He raises his eyebrows, then, with a little grunt, he opens his eyes, then rubs one with the other hand, which makes you jerk the q-tip out of the way.  He looks up at you and you smile down at him.

“It’s not too bad,” you tell him.  “Probably get away with a bit of tape.”

“I got hit omma- on… my chest.”

There’s enough blood dripped around that you’re not sure what he means, so pull his shirt up so you can look and check for more marks.  There’s a decent graze bruising under his right arm, where the ribs ripple his skin, and you press around it to see if the colour changes, or if anything feels chubby.  His other hand slides overs yours, pressing it to himself like he did the other, and now you’re leaning over his head.

“Sam, I can’t finish if you do this.”  His breath is blowing into the fabric of your shirt, right below your bust.  “Come on. Let me do the last bit and you can get some rest.”

“Jus’ kiss it better.”  He shifts his face side to side, letting your t-shirt fabric brush over his nose.  “Ma-y check for glass.”

“Check for glass?” You sit up and back to see him properly.  “Sam? What do you mean? Did you get cut with a broken bottle or something?”  You move around and sit by his hips, lifting his shirt again to reach and check his back.

Meanwhile, Sam’s fingers dumbly shift your hair around, and the palm of his hand is noisy over your ear. “I too drunk,” he mumbles.

Your hands come back dry, you’re not sure what he meant now.  “Yeah, you are,” you decide. “Talking shit about your wounds.”  

Once you’re satisfied his eyebrow is dressed enough, you sit on your knees, pushing Sam a bit so he doesn’t completely fold into the dint of your weight on the bed, and clean off the last of the blood.  He lets his closer arm hang on to your hip, his hand reaching broad across your back and sometimes over your ass, his other hand dragging itself down your arm or side, like they’re showing you how gravity likes things to fall down.

In fact, you’re pretty sure his hands are connected more to your mind than his.  All this contact, the lazy brushing and warmth, how easily you can look at him and see everything, it’s not helping.  It’s as if his hands know what you’ve always wanted.

He blinks up at you, dreamy and smiling.  “You’re so gentle,” he sighs, and you smile back.  “Most gen’le thing I know.”

Yes, you are, whenever you can be.

Cleaning him up when he’s a bit out of it is such thievery for you.  It’s like watching him sleep, but not as creepy, and there’s no risk of you getting busted.  You usually steal one second out of every three, but this time you’re more concerned over the simple fact that you actually don’t know how this happened, so keep on with the job.

“How the hell am I going to get you up to the pillows, you great lump?”  You start to pack everything up, ignoring Sam practically hugging your hips by now. Pulling his big, holding arms away from yourself goes against your every fibre.

“Are you alright?”

“Sweet Jee-sus!  _Cas!_  I want to  _live!”_  He watches you press a hand to your chest and steady yourself.  “Don’t you ever just want to see me say Hello? What the hell brought you here anyway!”

“Sam’s injured.  He prayed for me-”

“Aaw,  _Sam!”_ you groan.  One of his knees twitches outwards.

“He says he’s sorry,” reports Cas, somewhat crestfallen at the true nature of his errand.  “He wants me to help you.”

“Uuugh,” you grumble, and go to put the first aid kit away.  “Yes, I  _would_  love the help,” you berate Sam’s sozzled body, “but this is  _not_ how you get it.”

Sam waves his fingers, possibly to dismiss you.

“Something about your back,” squints Cas, “too important.”

“So doesn’t matter Cas.  I’m sorry.”  You take one of Sam’s legs and drag it to the centre of the mattress, then hook an arm under his armpit.  Cas joins in, too, and helps you move Sam up the bed, asking, “How did he get so injured?”

“He was in a fight!” You’re still surprised. “I have no idea what about, but it was him, drunk off his ass, against three guys!  Stupid.  I’m pretty sure he started it, to be honest.”

“I’m glad I was able to help,” says Cas.  “Maybe the hangover will be a fair punishment for his flippancy.”

The two of you look at him starfished there, your hands on your hips, and you mutter, “I don’t know what’s going on.  He never gets drunk like this.  Or violent for no reason.”

“Maybe he wants to be nursed.”

You look at Cas, doubtful about why the flip that would be motivation enough.

“His mind is rambling about how nice it is to be nursed by you when he’s hurt.  I think that’s what he hoped for.”

You glare at Cas, stunned at such an idea, and look at Sam there with his newly patched eyebrow and chest and bruised face, half smiling in alcoholic delirium.  “Sober him up.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sober him up.  His face’ll be fucking throbbing from all that.  Let  _that_ be his punishment.  I want some answers.”

Cas frowns at Sam’s body, suddenly torn by his loyalties. He feels there’s some sort of moral line inside cleansing-yet-not-healing, and although it’s a relatively mild consequence, he’s known Sam longer than he’s known you, and it was Sam who asked him here-

But then Cas catches you glaring at his hesitation and he thinks better of it.  He can do the rest tomorrow.

So he shuffles close enough and leans over to reach Sam with the two fingers it takes to administer this very specific healing.  After a few seconds, Sam gasps, groans and gently puts his palm to his forehead. Then he breathes out and opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling and all its flaws like it’s some kind of metaphor for the clarity he now feels.

Sam clears his throat, and turns his head so he can look at the treacherous angel, blinking through the pain.  “Thank you, Cas,” he utters crisply.

“You’re… welcome.”  Cas checks your countenance, glances at Sam, and conveniently disappears.

Without preamble, you stalk over to the kitchenette table and pull out a chair, cracking it onto the floor.  “Stay there.”

Sam leans up, on his elbows, wincing and hiccuping at the wounds, and watches you go to the freezer.  He keeps watching you as he scoots forward, trying to recall whatever his drunken self picked up in these last minutes.  He’s not sure what you and Cas talked about, and he’s searching his mind quite fruitlessly.

He’s halfway to sitting when you snap, “Actually, on the edge.”

“On the-”

 _“Sit on the end of the bed,_ ” you demand, biting each word.

Sam swallows and does as he’s told, watching you turn the chair to face him and thump it down within arm’s reach.

You plonk a cold pack in one of his hands and let him put it wherever he wants. He chooses a cheek bone.  

“Where’s the other cut,” you demand, “from the glass?”

“Uh, it’s-” Sam avoids your gaze and puts his fingertips on his crown.

You get up to stand between his legs, ignoring the closeness, and move him about to see better.  It looks cleanly made, certainly by something sharp.  What blood there was dripped backwards, inside his hairline, which is why you didn’t see it, and why you’re annoyed at yourself for not better checking his head.  It definitely requires stitches.

Sam looks at your knees between his.  He lets you tilt his head and guesses at what you’re thinking.  Nothing happy.  Nothing cute or flattered, according to your cursory hands.  He feels his body go hot all over, unable to bring himself to ask if Cas heard something or told you something, because that would be self-incrimination.  And he can’t ask if you’re unhappy about missing your date, lest he seem bitter, or jealous, which he’s sure he always does.  So, he swallows and watches you sit back in your chair and not talk.

You glower at him till he drops his gaze in contrition, then duck your head as if to pray.  There are Sam’s hands, his reddened fingers spread broad across his thighs, and the patchy dampness and grub on his jeans.  All that evidence of what he did to get himself hurt… You have your thought and wait.

Momentarily, Cas appears once more.  Sam looks up at him, confused at the two fingers upon his forehead again, near confounded at the healing that comes next.  Cas shrugs his chin in a inexplicable way, and is gone again.

_“Don’t ever do that again!!”_

“Oh! Shit, okay,” Sam mumbles in surprise.  He’s suddenly feeling fine, except you’re yelling at him.

“You have to promise me you won’t do that again. Your hurt isn’t nothing.” You point at his chest, and let yourself get as angry as you like.  “Do you understand? It  _matters_  when you get hurt.  I don’t like it.  I don’t like to see it and I sure as hell don’t want you doing it for me.  You are  _not_  to  _hurt_  yourself for  _me_. Alright?!”

Sam lowers the cold pack and chucks it onto the table. “Y/N, you know that’s not-”

“Look, I can take it when we’re hunting.  I can deal with that because I have to, but  _what_. The  _Fuck?_  Was  _that?_ ”

Sam cautiously takes in your glare for all over two seconds before clearing his throat, rubbing his palms on his thighs while he thinks of a good excuse.  “I….” He licks his lips, checking you again, quickly understanding you’ve no intention of making this easier.  “I was drunk,” he offers sensibly, “obviously.  And.  I made a not… great… decision.”

“Which was?”

More seconds pass while Sam considers his angle, and after a while he seems to deflate, as though nothing he has to say will work out, and gazes at you like an unheld kitten.

So, you cut him some slack.  “Did you really get yourself hurt just so I’d have to patch you up?”

He looks around the space a bit evasively, glancing at you a moment before confessing with the smallest of nods.

“ _Saam_ ,” you whine, “come on.”

He shakes his head, nods his head and rolls his eyes in the universal gesture of  _I’m an idiot, yes I know._

You sigh, shrugging, “Alright, well I guess I am, you know, the only woman you’ve got around-”

“You’re not the only woman I know,” he scowls.  Sam can feel you starting to excuse away someone being attracted to you– he’s seen it before –and he’s not interested in the reason for his feelings being downgraded to a lack of choice.  “You’re amazing.”

“It’s just-”

“You’re amazing to  _me_ … and I’m sorry I went and created a reason for you to pay me some attention.”  He shrugs again, not sorry.  “I just missed you, is all.  It’d been a while and it’s nice when you look after me.  I like it.”

He likes it.  

He likes you doing nice things to him.  Because you’re you and he thinks you’re amazing.  Your mind races with the knowledge, all of you does, as though the words are in your blood, galloping through your veins to make your fingers and toes tingle with the good news.   _He likes us!_

“I like it, too,” you admit.  Sam looks at you more carefully than ever and you let him see.  “I like being there for you.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. And,” Fair’s fair. “…you’re not the only man I know.”

He doesn’t smile, but his dimples show, because he knows you’ve forgiven him.

Before he can look too smug about it, Sam drops his head, letting it bounce on his neck while he watches his fingers lace, low in his lap, and bites his lip at his own good luck.

You try to think of something he might need doing - remove an eyelash? Back massage? Cut his nails? - now that you’ve gone and prayed away every ailment he has, anything to get your hands on him again.  “You um…” You stand up, interrupting his thoughts, and Sam’s gaze follows you upwards, watches you reach out and put your fingers to the place where the last cut was.  Sam sits up so it’s easy for you, and looks at your stomach, your jeans, waiting quietly to see what you’ll do.

There’s blood caked under the hair, and you thread your finger under it to lift the strands and see where it goes.  Sam tilts for you, breathes deep and blinks at the sweet feeling of you doing that again, threading and shifting, inch after inch of skin checked and hair gently combed and he tips his head forward enough that you can step between his thighs and let him lean against your belly.

“Needs washing,” you tell him.

Sam’s back expands, filling with a deep, grateful breath, and he lets his fingers rest on the back of your legs.  “Yheah?” he sighs.  “An’ what should I do about that?”

It’s subtle, but you’re sure he takes his time, dragging his nose on you as he looks up and lets his head hinge back on his neck.

“You should let me look after you.”

You’ve got his head in your hands and you lean in, feel him pull you in, close enough that his forearms can press you against his chest, his throat long up your body.  He seems to relax into it, as though he’s found his place.  You trace his eyebrow and brush his hair back to where it belongs, and imagine this being common.

“Come on.” You pull away, finding his wrist to bring him along, and head for the bathroom.

“Seriously? You’re going to wash me?”

The two of you stand in the doorway of the bathroom, remembering what this particular one looks like, and it’s not great.

The shower, right in front of the door, is small and flimsy looking and possibly only there for the extra star.  The sink, just to the right, is set too far back from the edge to be useful, and the bathtub, across the end of the narrow room, is toddler-long.

“How about…” You can figure this out, you’re sure.  “How about you wash your hands and I’ll get some stuff sorted.”

You’ve always got more than three towels around, for blood and what not.  And this motel is just fancy enough for a decorative pillow per bed, so they get set down on the floor, against the bath.  “Fill the sink for us?” you ask, and once Sam’s washed off the Rent-a-thug blood, he does so. “Take a seat.”

Sam tries not to smile, then not grin, as he takes off his plaid shirt.  It’s a bit crowded, but once he’s sitting on one pillow and leaning back against the other, you can get over his long legs easily enough and collect some warm water with a coffee mug.

You offer him a towel as you kneel down, waiting for him to wrap it around his shoulders and settle back again to tilt his head back over the bath.  Then you lean over to pour the water.

“Like this,” he says, and opens his arms as though you’re going to get into his lap.

So, with mug poised, you let him lead your knee over himself, and shuffle into a position that lets you reach.  “Lean your head back.”

Sam holds you against him, presses your thighs against him so he can use your weight to lever himself backward and not slide down. Maybe an inch, back and forth you shift, his deep, inhaling chest pushing you, so the water pours unevenly over his head.  You try to focus on what you’re doing, and not the new serenity on his face.

“S’nice,” he breathes, peeking to watch you.

“So you said,” you smile, and he smiles back.  “I need to get more water.”

You rock back onto your toes, stand and scoop, and Sam’s hands slide down your legs as you do, leading you back to your place when you return.  Just having him reach for you like this, being in his arms, between his hands, his gaze tethered to your every move, it’s heady.  You’re flushed warm and goose-pimpled, slow and excited, allowed and stealing.  Is Sam about to become your Sam?  Are you going to look at him differently tomorrow?

This time he settles into it and you try to support his head some while wetting his hair all over.  “Okay, you ready?”

“What for?”

“Shampoo.”

“Sure am.”

Pop, splurt, gloop and slather, you’ve got it smeared over his head in seconds, and he looks smug with it, like he knows what you’re doing.

“Really ready?”

“What am I gettin’ ready for?” he murmurs.  Then he slurps in a breath of  _Oh, that_ , as you drive your fingertips over his scalp, firm and sensuous.

He slackens all over, surrendering to the pleasure of your hands drawing delicious pressure over his head, your symmetrical swirls relieving the muscles and awakening his skin.  Soon his skull is lolling around on his neck, entrusted to your hands, and he loses time as he gives in to you making him feel heavenly.

He comes to for a few moments when you go for more water, and holds his head still while you rinse, lazily watching you pay attention to him.  His fingers spread across the back of your ribs and make you feel small.

You sit down, on his knees, asking “Again?”

“Hng?” He looks drunk all over again.

“More shampoo?”

“Nah,” he says.  “I’ll fall asleep.”

“Oh will you?”

“You gonna kiss me?” he slurs.

It’s as though you’ve massaged a filter away and you laugh as it honesty.  “Is that what you’ve been waiting for?”

“Yeah, I’s really hoping, for a while now-” Sam smiles, watching you kneel up again, right up so that you can look down on him.  “Months, really.”

“I guess I could do that.” As you lean down, he pulls you nearer, a knee at a time, teetering you closer so that you come down to him like a falling leaf. And falling really is the right word to use here.

He catches you, holds you on himself, listens to your lips move, and smiles and feels what it’s like.  His hands over your ears bring it all into sharpness, because he holds you firmly enough for his pulse to mix with yours. When you move the kiss you can hear the noises from him too, his breath and lick, and his hum, and savour this for a few moments, the first time Sam’s lips taste yours.

“You’ll get cold.” You find the towel around his shoulders, tug on it to make him sit forward enough to let it go, and wrap it around his head like a hood.

Sam grins and lets you sit back on his legs so he can rub his hair dry, fast and rough, throwing the towel aside so he can pull you close again with a hand on your back.  You giggle at the mess on top.  “You look like you’ve been attacked by small storm.”

“I don’t care,” he laughs.  “Come to bed with me.”  He bends his legs, sliding you into his lap and wrapping his arms around you.

“Really?” The question makes you look over his shoulder, trying to think while he trickles kisses down your cheek and neck.  “What for, exactly?”

“Whatever you want.” His words warm your chest. “I just wanna lay with you and be close.”  He slides a broad hand under your shirts, up your back, and gets his elbow against your spine.  “Real close.”

His other hand brushes your hair, over your ear, while he looks at you thinking.  “So you can kiss me back?” you check.

“Yeah,” he grins.  “Come on.”  Sam tucks you close and folds his legs under himself, getting his knees on the ground so he can wrestle your weight, and his, and eventually stand. “You sure-?”  “S’all good.  I got it.”  It’s gangly, and the sink bench creaks while you try not to laugh and cling to him and he gets himself upright.  “There we go.  Gotcha,” he says.  He kisses you fat on the cheek, then buries himself in the puddle by your neck, mumbling, “Mmmmm, I gotcha.  All mine.”

Soon you’re at the biggest bed and he’s kneeling onto it, dropping you down so you can pull back the covers, kick off shoes and flip-flop yourselves warm.  “We can do these, too,” you say, unbuttoning your jeans and shoving them down.  Sam follows suit, holding up the sheet until you’re done and snuggling towards him.

The two of you fit nicely, you inside his arm and your legs entwined as though this is how you’ll sleep tonight.  All sensible and sweet.

He smells of himself, sweaty, with beer nearby, but not at all unpleasant.  His legs are so long, very hairy, and you bite your lip at how he keeps shifting, his leg between yours pulling you closer, his body inching so keenly that you’re nearly pushed backward.

“How’s this?” he asks.

You tilt your head all the way back, and he looks down, the difference making your voice raspy from the stretch.  “Can you reach my lips?”

He can, especially since he shucks you upwards with his leg, a great hand across your ass to help you up to his mouth.  

If you think the rest of your body isn’t involved in a kiss, just compare how different it is laying down.  Right here, whatever tune his lips are playing, the rest of him echoes in harmony.  His hips roll a smooth beat, undulating as though that’s where his kisses all begin, and his hands give back, too, all of it so thorough, so overwhelming, it’s as though all your skin can taste him.

Then he shifts again, his leg grinding into your groin so he can smear his body up against yours, and his cock, long and hard, is right there, making you gasp.

“Just so you know,” he says breathlessly, “that’s always gonna be like that, when we’re like this.  You don’t have to do anything about it.”  He smiles slackly, and starts another full-bodied kiss.

You’re sure your leg is pulling, too, your fingers digging deep to make up for how small they feel against his back, his chest, and your tongue meets him over and over. So, he must feel how you drag your mound over his thigh, as though you can kiss him with that, too.  Soon, you’ve done it enough times, rolled the bone over that muscle, that he’s got a hold on your hip and started to rock with you.  “You want that?” he asks.  “Wanna use that?”

You try to watch his lips but your gaze flicks up to his eyes, and he watching you intently, looking for you to see him.  “Yeah, s’nice.”

“Go on.”  He helps you rock on him, watches you close your eyes and listen to how sweet it feels.  Her starts to grunt with you, a low hum pushed off each beat, and you can feel him search for something similar against you, too.  “So gorgeous, Y/N.”

You reach up again, searching for a kiss, and Sam slips his fingers down the front of your body, leading you to lay back so he can push his flat fingertips against your panties and draw fat circles around your clit, smooshing your mound around.  It makes you gasp and grab his wrist, and he leans on his elbow to look at you, letting the covers slide down his arm to your thighs.

It’s just as he imagined, the way your jaw would fall slack while he made you feel so good, sighing and rocking for him.  You drop your other hand, too, wrapping your fingers around his cock, through his boxers, and move like your arm’s attached to his, dragging as he drags on you.

“Shshshshit, oh! That’s-”  Your grip is tight and firm.  You don’t let him slip at all, just tug by millimeters, because what he’s doing to you is like what you want, a little bit mean.  He shoves his hips into your hold, rutting for more, and starts to get honest.  “Y/N?” he asks, pushing his forehead against your temple, biting at your jaw.  “Waddya want?  Huh?  What’re we gonna do?”

“Huh, Jesus Sam, just-” You jerk his wrist up so he can feel the elastic edge and push under it, bucking your hips to get his fingers wet, and Sam groans hard, takes your lips in a messy kiss as he starts circling again.  Then he starts to flick, making you lose your grip on his cock and whimper, and he pushes his mouth against you while you writhe beneath his kiss.  “Ah!  Ahfuck! Sam! Please!”

“Am I gettin’ a condom?”

“Yes! Fuck! Do that!”

He flicks a few more times, as if to finish, but you keen for it so much he lingers, teasing and giving, before you push on his arm, then give his cock a generous down-up-down, and the sensation is so tempting he’s persuaded.

While Sam flaps around his jeans pockets and pushes down his shorts, you lay your hand over your eyes and listen to the high buzz of your skin, from ribs to knees and down the inside of your legs. Then he’s pulling your panties down and shoving your top hemline up, and you’re undoing your bra, interrupted by him threading his fingers between the lips of your pussy and shoving the heel of his hand against your softness.

Hot, wet lips and damp hair, you sigh into his tongue on your breast, hug his head to your chest and grind down on the pressure between your legs, then think to pull his t-shirt up his body. He pulls out one arm, ducks out of the neck, and lets the rest slide down to his leaning elbow, kissing your lips again and shifting his body over yours.

“Come on,” you breathe, opening your legs for him and dragging your hands up his body.  “Oh, my god.”  That’s his body, over yours, belly to belly, and his thumb pushing his cock down to find your dint, knees shifting and angling his hips to catch the angle.  “Sam, you okay?”

“You okay?” He asks as though you prompted him, and smiles breathlessly as you reach up for him and nod into the kiss.  “I’m okay,” he laughs.  “Wanted you so much.”

“Mmm, me too.”  You smile and try to brush his hair back, everything half dry from his warmth, and watch his eyes sparkle.  “You feel so good already.”

He pushes in, maybe half way, then out and in to finish, leaning into you with a hard Aaah at the feel of you all round him.  His weight settles into your hips, all his skin meeting yours, and he presses his mouth into your neck, high on the muscle, just behind your ear, while he waits for you to settle into it.

Always with the first drive, like your body’s first meeting with someone, you can feel it all the way in, pushing to make space for himself, hard and taking.  Soon, you’re undulating to start something, and Sam knows you’re ready for more.

“You want anything in particular?” he asks, leaning up and watching his broad hand drag down from chest to waist and back up to greedily push your breast and feel it’s heft.  His hips start to answer yours. “What do you feel like?”

“I just, I know- Oh, God, I’m looking forward to your fingers.”  He grins at you and starts to roll harder, not pulling away at all.  “That’s- I’m just really looking forward to that, what you’ll do with that,” you say, trying to word and not actually fantasise.  “But I think I’d like you to fuck me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, just a good hard fuck.  Just… friction.”  You nod, getting distracted by his shoulder, and then his chest, and then his muscled stomach.  He’s all quite beautiful.

“That’s what you want?” he smirks, noticing your sightseeing.

“Yeah.  Don’t you?”

“Hell, yeah,” he murmurs, straightening himself over you.  “I’m just checking you’re not saying it just to please me.”

“No, it’s all me-me-me at this stage,” you say and clench your floor muscles.

Sam’s brow grinds down and he groans, kicking off a shallow shove from his hips.  “Sure is.”  then he kisses you and does as you requested.

First, he rolls it, a continuous kind of beat, like a piston on a wheel, and at some point it feels too good for him to be gentle. You can see how he’s focused on the pleasure, so lick your fingers, meaning to please yourself since his arms are busy, but he takes your hand and puts it to his mouth, sucking your fingers and licking them sopping, before leading your reach between you.  

As soon as you start circling, Sam leans his elbow by your shoulder and slips his hand under your neck, curving his hot palm against the bones and spidering his fingers into your hair.  Quickly, you tweak your own nerves, making your body twitch around it, and Sam starts to breathe hard right with you, his shining lips poised over yours, pacing his speed and listening to your sounds so that he can meet you there. He can feel your fingers, furiously working for bliss, and, for whatever reason, he decides to intervene.

So he drops his hips a little, angles it new, and licks his thumb to get in there too, pushing you aside and tipping your clit just differently enough, just fast enough, that it meets his own rhythm, sweet and drawing.  You voice climbs sharply, warningly, at it connecting inside and out, and you hold on tight.  Within a few thrusts, you’re crying out and shuddering, desperately trying to kiss him and gasp at the same time, and then Sam grabs the sheets, kisses you into the pillow and shoves himself inside you several times as he comes, and everything but the lungs and blood come to a halt.

Slowly, counting in breaths, he eases off.  His fingertips soften, his body uncurls and rests, and his head lifts enough that your lips can move.  Then he’s kissing over your cheek and resting his forehead on the pillow.

“Holy cow,” you sigh.  “I needed that.”

“You needed a solid fuck?”

“I needed to be fucked by you.”

Sam’s chest bounces a bit and he lifts his head to see you.  “That so?”

“Yeah.  I been fantasising about it long enough.”

“Me, too,” he chuckles.  “Now, I can just fantasise about you and my fingers.”  Sam breathes deep, nuzzling his hips into yours as he leans up over you again and considers his lovely situation.  

“How about we get together on that next time, and you can take care of me?”

“Yes,” he says, brushing his fingers through your hair again, taking it all in.  “Pretty sure I owe you.”


	2. Not a chapter: This accidentally got out of hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @bamby0304 picked up the Seussical rhythm in a particular part of this oneshot, and I ran with it. I just didn't want AO3 folks to miss out!

@bamby0304 reblogged [ **Which one of you bitches wants to dance?**](https://littlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com/post/174785334307/which-one-of-you-bitches-wants-to-dance) and said:

Soooooooooo, you knooooo…

 

_So he drops his hips a little, angles it new_

_An licks his thumb to get in there too._

_And Sam, our Sam, our talented Moose_

_Our generous man, with his generous duce,_

_He fucks and he fucks and he fucks till you’re done,_

_‘Cause coming’s not fun if there’s just cum for one._

_With prettiful orbs and breaths he was holding,_

_Panties rip-ripped, bums bruised in the morning,_

_His sweat-beaded brow is from loving, not hovering,_

_‘Cause loving is easy for Sam, not a bothering._

 

_And Sam, our Sam, our talented Moose,_

_Chooses and uses his talent caboose_

_To make you take gaspses with graspses and claspses,_

_Swap life-long promises with voices that raspses._

_Your sighs all abreezy and orgasms so easy,_

_You’ll thank Chuck, so cheesy, so good is Sam-squeezy._

_He kisses and cuddles and smooches and snuggles and squeezles and teasles, and scootches for huggles,_

_All with his monster-cock, fucking you open,_

_You’ll come so much faster than you were a’hopin’._

_You’ll climb up the walls, you’ll grab at the plasters,_

_You’ll soar to high heights, you’ll claw at the rafters._

_Oh the places you’ll go!_

 

_There isn’t a Your Name or Reader or Blank,_

_Who‘s not been inclined to get down and thank,_

_The Powers That Be that made our great Moose,_

_Our great golden boy and his gifted caboose._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [@seenashwrite made art too.](https://seenashwrite.tumblr.com/post/174963799260/thidwick-the-big-hearted-moose) _Don't_ blame me.


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